The Adventures of Jimmie Dale eBook

In his impatience, now, the street car seemed to drag
along every foot of the way; but a glance at his watch,
as he finally reached the Bowery, and, walking then,
rapidly approached the cross street a few steps ahead
that led to the Sanctuary, told him that it was still
but a quarter to nine. But even at that he quickened
his steps a little. He was free now! There
was a sort of savage, elemental uplift upon him.
He was free! He could strike now in his own defense—­and
hers! In a few moments he would be at the Sanctuary;
in a few more he would be Larry the Bat, and by to-morrow
at the latest he would see—­The Tocsin.
After all, that “hour” was not to be taken
from him! It was not, perhaps, the hour that she
had meant it should be, thought and prayed, perhaps,
that it might be! It was not the hour of victory.
But it was the hour that meant to him the realisation
of the years of longing, the hour when he should see
her, see her for the first time face to face, when
there should be no more barriers between them, when—­

“Fer Gawd’s sake, mister, buy a pencil!”

A hand was plucking at his sleeve, the thin voice
was whining in his ear. He halted mechanically.
A woman, old, bedraggled, ragged, was thrusting a
bunch of cheap pencils imploringly toward him—­and
then, with a stifled cry, Jimmie Dale leaned forward.
The eyes that lifted to his for an instant were bright
and clear with the vigor of youth, great eyes of brown
they were, and trouble, hope, fear, wistfulness, ay,
and a glorious shyness were in their depths.
And then the voice he knew so well, the Tocsin’s
was whispering hurriedly:

“I will be waiting here, Jimmie—­for
Larry the Bat.”

CHAPTER VIII

THE TOCSIN

It was only a little way back along the street from
the Sanctuary to the corner on the Bowery where as
Jimmie Dale he had left her, where as Larry the Bat
now he was going to meet her again; it would take only
a moment or so, even at Larry the Bat’s habitual,
characteristic, slouching, gait—­but it
seemed that was all too slow, that he must throw discretion
to the winds and run the distance. His blood was
tingling; there was elation upon him, coupled with
an almost childlike dread that she might be gone.

“The Tocsin! The Tocsin!” he kept
saying to himself.

Yes; she was still there, still whiningly imploring
those who passed to buy her miserable pencils—­and
then, with a quick-flung whisper to him to follow
as he slouched up close to her, she had started slowly
down the street.